Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Seems like outrageous behavior, lack of self-control and poor decision making create more celebrities than talent these days. Want to be discovered? Film yourself doing something hilarious, daring, disgusting, disturbing or morally corrupt and you're liable to get your own reality show.

While there are a few nonscripted shows out there worth watching (Duck Dynasty, The Incredible Dr. Pol) the majority are far from any reality I would hope to expereince.

Plastic, fighting housewives? Not in my neighborhood. Seaside drunk guidos? Not interested. Talentless sisters pimped out to the media by their mom? Wouldn't want to hang with them. Guys with night vision goggles hunting squatches? Nah. I got shit to do.

Then, after "reality" hits, what do you do for more attention? Make a sex tape that gets leaked (wink-wink) to the Internet. I'm pretty sure if I ever saw myself having sex that I'd never have it again. But, if I ever WAS so inclined, I'd insist on body makeup, complimentary lighting and one of those blurry lenses that smooths everything out. (Madonna's people know where to get those.) Post production airbrushing would be a must.

Once you're a celebrity, the next step seems to be marketing your own fragrance. Fact: I'd rather smell like Marlboros and Cool Ranch Doritos than a Kardashian or a Jersey Shore strumpet.

Ring! Ring! Oh, who's that calling now that you're (in)famous? Why, Hugh Hefner of course! He wants to see you tastefully photographed gardening without panties or naked, spread eagle on a rock. Hef seriously creeps me out. Am I the only one who thinks he surely smells like ass rot and skank?

Celebrities of any origination must also canoodle. The paparazzi always catches them canoodling. I'm not quite sure what canoodling is, but it sounds like some kind of weird pasta fetish. I'm against it.

Reality? I'm much happier with my own than any I can watch on television.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Before I begin my story, let me introduce you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle (not his real name). He is a hoot. Ladies, if you do not have a gay boyfriend, you are missing out. Poodle knows the best restaurants, the best places to shop, what's hot, what's not and makes a mean sangria. I love people who are who they are -- no pretense. What you see is what you get. That's my Poodle.

When Poodle learned that Hubs and I had never been to what he considered key landmarks in the big city, he quickly remedied that by planning an evening out for a group of us. Our evening began with a late dinner at a wonderful restaurant. From there, we went to a type of establishment I'd never visited before -- a strip club. Not just any strip club, but a historical landmark in the city known for its "mature" performers and seedy atmosphere. For the purpose of this post, I shall call it The Dusty Beaver. (I'm not going to state the real name of this establishment just in case any of your grandmothers work there, bless their hearts, and my comments offend.)

Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was a line to enter The Dusty Beaver. The place was packed. Standing room only. The crowd could not have been more diverse. Young, old, gay, straight, any demographic you can imagine. Music pounded, lights pulsed. I was taking it all in. Then it happened.... I caught my first glimpse of a performer. Ho. Lee. Shit. There was an older lady strutting her stuff practically buck naked up on the stage. Things only went downhill from there. She got more naked, as did those that followed.

Now if you are picturing an older lady who has done much to maintain her skin and physique, let me stop you right there. That was not the case. Time, gravity, and slowing metabolisms had not been kind to these ladies. Some even looked like their asses and the backs of their legs had been beaten with a bag of nickels. Yet, there they were, smiling, dancing (kind of), and giving their all to a cheering crowd. Lawd.

An old lady came shuffling out dressed as a little girl, complete with polka dot skirt, crinoline making it poof out, and a bow in her hair. She didn't dance so much as remain upright. Her signature move appeared to be that of a toddler boy learning to pee in the yard. She'd stand with her legs spread, hold her skirt up, and thrust her hips out. Classy. Let me just preface the following by saying that what has been seen, cannot be unseen: She lifted her skirt, pulled her enormous granny panties to the side and illuminated her old muffin with a light. What. The. Fuck. I was speechless. Frozen. Much like a train wreck, I couldn't tear my eyes away from this unbelievably horrible sight. Poodle was laughing his ass off at my horror.

Then, out comes the next peformer. I shall call her Chocolate Pancake. She took off her top and I just knew she was going to trip over those long, flat ti-taes. (I'm certain I don't have to be proper and call them "breasts" when I saw them in a seedy strip club.) A small busted gal myself, I was dumbstruck. Poodle said, "She's a 36 long!" Chocolate Pancake quickly divested herself of all clothing. (I thought she left on some type of textured thong, but to my abject horror, that was not the case.) Then, just when I thought I could not be more shocked, it happened.... Chocolate Pancake solicited an empty beer can from the crowd, put it where the sun don't shine, gave a wiggle, then pulled it back out, smashed flat. What. The. Fuck. I tried to rationalize. "Hey, maybe she's just recycling. That's it! She's just doing her part for the environment." Nope. She did it again. Okaaaaaaaay.

Apparently the rest of our group had seen enough, too, so we extricated ourselves from the crowd and made a break for it. On our way to the car, Hubs said that he's not sure when he'll be able to get it up again after seeing all that. (Sounds like I'll be able to finish that book I've been reading.) My time at The Dusty Beaver now just lives in my night terrors. But, I did learn two very important lessons:

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

My sister, Nice, had this cat named Yellow Kitty. (Yeah, I know. I'm just thankful my niece isn't named Baby Girl.) Yellow Kitty (YK) is a HUGE cat whose hunting prowess was the stuff legends are made of.

Nice would tell of the daily carnage her family would find in their yard. Squirrels. Rabbits. Birds. Unidentifiable, bloody stubs and pieces.... YK was one bad mofo. As often happens to bad mofos, YK would get into fights. After complaints from a neighbor whose cat was apparently a real pussy (See what I did there?), Nice offered YK to the Hubs and myself since we live in a more rural setting.

Critters abound at our place, so we were THRILLED to get this killer on our property. We decided to keep him in my studio so that he could wipe out the rodents that would attempt to set up residency. It would be like his very own slaughterhouse with no other cats to encroach on his turf. My hopes soared!

Days passed.... No carnage.

Okay, YK's adapting to his new habitat. He's just casing the joint. Trying to decide what he will kill first. It's just a matter of time before he starts kicking some rodent ass!

Weeks passed.... No carnage. Not even a teensy bit of carnage.

Then, one day....

Me: Hey,Yellow Kitty! What's that over there?!?

﻿

Are you talking to me?

Me: Do you see anyone else around here with the stupid name Yellow Kitty???

Point taken.

﻿

What?

Me: Dammit YK! Look over there!!!

WTF???

That is the ugliest cat I've ever seen.

Me: It's a fucking 'possum you lazy ass!!!! Get it the fuck out of here!!!

Monday, March 11, 2013

There are a host of reality shows showcasing southerners and/or rednecks these days. Southern born and raised, I am offended by most of the personalities chosen to represent us. Therefore, I would like to make a few things perfectly clear:

I have NEVER....

had sex with a relative

been mud boggin' or squirrel huntin'

gotten horny listening to banjo music

gone catfish noodling

been pregnant

sported a mullet

heard of rogue hillbillies ass-raping chubby city slickers

opened a can of whoop-ass

personally delivered an ass-kickin'

owned or displayed a Confederate flag

attended a NASCAR event

worn camo to a formal event

had a toothbrush get dusty

considered cheese balls a dietary staple

cooked meth

However, I HAVE....

drunk moonshine

successfully operated post hole diggers

pulled pork (not a sexual thing)

received a gun as a gift

given a gun as a gift

helped gut and skin a deer

used raw chicken livers as bait when fishing

cooked and eaten grits regularly

referred to someone as a damn Yankee (not the baseball kind)

used the exclamation, "Shit fire!"

utilized the phrase "Bless her heart" to excuse myself from saying something awful about someone else

In case you've never used this gem, here's an example of it used correctly: If she was anymore of a bitch, she'd have puppies. Bless her heart.

So next time you see a commercial for Honey Boo Boo or My Redneck Vacation (I'm giving you credit for just having seen the commercials, not the shows), remember that those folks are the EXCEPTION, definitely not the rule!

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Forget sex education classes and condoms. If you really want to deter teen pregnancy, make teens spend a day at Chuck E. Cheese. My first (and last) visit wasn't until I was in my thirties, but it did the trick. I could actually feel my tubes double knotting themselves as I watched kids react to the stimulus of this rodent sponsored rave.

One child totally lost control of his bladder on one of the rides. As the seat lifted into the air, down came the wave of pee in a splash all over the floor. Didn't seem to bother him. He just jumped off and ran to the next attraction. Guess what happened next. Yep. Another tot trotted right up and hopped onto the seat, totally oblivious to the pool of piss he'd just sat in. Kids are resilient like that.

Parents deal with shit like this all the time. They keep going with a willingness and tenacity that is foreign to those of us who are childless. I applaud them. I truly do, because I totally admire people with skills and attributes I do not possess. Parenting is at the top of that list. The good Lord knew what he was doing when he gave me no desire to reproduce. (He's all-knowing like that.). I love the children in my life, but I am grateful -- as should they be -- that I am not their mom because I would surely screw them up.

First of all, I watch too many true crime shows, so I would be super paranoid about letting them experience new things. You want to run out to the ice cream truck? Nope. A pedophile is likely hocking those Nutty Buddies. You want to go to the circus? Nope. Clowns are bad news. Does the name John Wayne Gasey mean anything to you?

I scarred my much younger sister, Nice (to my Naughty), when we were growing up. To this day, Nice remembers my rules/warnings regarding public restrooms:

1. NEVER sit on the potty. (Hover, as all good Southern girls have been taught.)
2. NEVER go by yourself. (Surely molesters lurk in public restrooms.)
3. DO. NOT. TOUCH. ANYTHING.

I came up with these rules when I was a teen, so imagine the damage I could do to a kid's outlook now! I'd likely have an App for them to avoid germs and danger.

Back to my my nonexistent children.... Groceries would have to be delivered. I once took my two-year-old godson to the grocery store. Holy shit. I have never felt so helpless. When he wasn't screaming and doing that "dish rag" maneuver where his knees won't lock so I could stand him up, he was doing the "try to put a cat in a box" move when I'd try to put him in the cart or back into his car seat. He's in his teens now and I can probably count the times I've taken him grocery shopping on three fingers.

My kids couldn't participate in organized sports. I am not a sports fan, so I require beer or vodka to be a pleasant spectator. Even I know that just wouldn't be right at T-ball practice.

My kids would never experience the carefree, childhood joy of a waterpark. Waiting in line with a bunch of strangers, standing in a puddle, everyone dripping wet in their bathing suits? Know what that water has touched? EVERYTHING. Not going to happen.

Monday, March 4, 2013

In case you aren't familiar with the premise, a Hall Pass List is composed of people you could hook up with if the opportunity presented itself with no repercussions from your spouse or partner. These are people you would not encounter normally -- celebrities, models, famous atheletes, etc. A Fantasy F--k List, if you will.

For example, Jennifer Aniston has been on Hubs' list from day one. She was nearby filming a movie not too long ago. If Hubs had run into her and she wanted some of that, he could've given her some. I couldn't have said a word. No judgement. Hell, I'd have been proud for him.

We each are allowed five people on our list. (The number is up to you. Make up your own rules.) Hubs keeps five at all times plus he has a waiting list. (Hang in there Sofia Vergara. You are on the verge!) I've been surprised that Hubs has kept Marisa Tomei on his list all these years. When I've asked why he hasn't switched her out for someone more current, he said, "I'm loyal like that." Good to know.

Jon Bon Jovi was the one and ONLY person on my list for years. Many, MANY years. However, JBJ started playing fast and loose with his ranking when he did the Advil commercial. But, I stood by him (I'm loyal like that) and convinced myself that he was just capitalizing on his notoriety as a mature celebrity. Who can't use a little Advil? Not so bad. At least he wasn't using "You Give Love a Bad Name" to pitch meds for venereal disease. So, JBJ maintained his reign as the lone star of my list.

But then it happened.... He created a fragrance for Avon. Shit. Why Jon? WHY?!? Couldn't you at least create a high end fragrance? He'd backed me into a corner. Left me no choice. I had to make the cut. I love his music, but that's all there can be between us.

That left an open slot for a new one and only on my list. (I am apparently far more discerning than my Hubs.) I considered Channing Tatum, but after seeing him in Magic Mike, I was wary. That guy can move and thrust like nobody's business. I'm over 40. A wild night with that young buck could break a hip. Sorry, Channing, but safety first.

After much deliberation, I did select a new one for my list. He's young, fit, can lift heavy things and would be handy for getting things down from the top shelf. I am going to keep him a secret for now to make sure he is the ONE. Stay tuned....

About Me

I'm an artist with a masters in sarcasm. I loves me some vodka and I tend to use the F-word more than a "lady" should. I am childless by choice. The Hubs and I just never wanted children, so we didn't have any. No biggee.
However, our lives are not childfree by any means. Between those of relatives and friends, we have more than a few kiddos around. This works out great for the parents because we enjoy spending time with them and their kids. It works out even better for us because we can take the little boogers home when they aren't so much fun.
After 25+ years together, there's no one who can make me laugh more or who I'd rather share an adventure with than my Hubs. Thankfully, for some bizarre reason, he feels the same way about me. :)